


A Return to Innocence

by KNSkns



Series: Life By Inches Trilogy [3]
Category: Farscape
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KNSkns/pseuds/KNSkns
Summary: Choices, promises, and other hopes. Last part of the AU trilogy.Fallen angels at my feet,Whispered voices at my ear,Death before my eyes - lying next to me I fear -She beckons me (shall I give in?)Upon my end shall I begin.Forsaking all I've fallen forI rise to meet the end.~ Evanescence "Whisper"
Relationships: Chiana (Farscape)/Ka D'Argo, John Crichton/Aeryn Sun, Scorpius (Farscape)/Sikozu Svala Shanti Sugaysi Shanu
Series: Life By Inches Trilogy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576762
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	A Return to Innocence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [E.M.Porter (aka OfficerSun524)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=E.M.Porter+%28aka+OfficerSun524%29).



> Originally published before 2006.  
> Disclaimer: Not mine.

The smell of Ilano'sslan is still in his nose; her rasping breaths are harsh in his ears. The final brilliant flash that guaranteed this last, desperate gamble claimed his sight as payment, leaving him in a world of grey shadows and pale light. He would've thought the price more than fair if it hadn't meant he wouldn't be able to see her. Oh precious sight - the ability to feel a smile, hear a worry, taste a half-made gesture.

If he ever sees Chiana again, he's going to tell her that he finally understands, now, after all this time, what it'd been like for her back then. What it meant that she'd sacrificed her sight to close down that wormhole, protect a homeworld not her own. What it meant to know you had things you wanted to accomplish, yet be all but immobilized by blindness.

He thinks of D'Argo. Somewhere out there the Luxan is waiting for them, holding Moya ready for their return. Maybe he's on Command, staring out the forward portal; or maybe he's in the docking bay, hoping to be the first one to see them. Or maybe he's with Pilot, giving the great creature advice that Moya's counterpart neither needs nor wants. D'Argo - his best friend. He misses him.

And the others - they might be there. Anything's possible. Crazy Stark, snarling at Rygel in the galley: "Your pot, my pot! Your pot, my pot!" The crafty dominar, snurching food to hide in the airvents. Hell, maybe Crais and Talyn are there, too, ready to cause more trouble. And Zhaan - of course, Zhaan. She'll be in the med bay, mixing the herbs she'll need to heal Aeryn. She'll know how to fix his blindness.

Suddenly he realizes the rasping breaths have faded away.

No. Said or thought, the denial is the same. Not now! Not yet. He jostles the woman half draped across his lap. He runs his hand over her, finds wet warmth he can too easily name. If only she'd told him before -

He calls to her softly. She doesn't answer.

"But we're so close," he protests, whispering against her ear. Her hair tickles his face, smells like rain and lazy mornings on Moya.

And now he has to laugh a little, because it's happened again: so many chances, so many possibilities - and not enough time.

To not succeed; to not achieve a goal; to forgo victory. Failure - a word known on every planet, a word found in every language.

He pulls her closer, tucks her head under his chin. "But we had some good times together, didn't we, baby? We just didn't have enough time."

At the edge of eternity, he finally understands. It's not about power or war or wormholes or knowledge. It's not about who wins or who doesn't. It's not about Scarrens or Sebaceans or Nebari.

It's about playing paper-rock-scissors with your best friend. It's about keeping your pseudo-sister out of jail because she's stolen something outrageously expensive (again.) It's about tracking a frog prince through metras of airvents because only he knows where the last of the food cubes are hidden. It's about watching the person you care about most in the entire universe throw a smile at you over her shoulder.

It's about time.

"Oh, for a little more time," he whispers softly. "All my kingdom for a little more time."

[]

For a culture that considered itself superior among all others of the universe, Peacekeepers did amazingly stupid things.

Case in point: why drag a person before a tribunal to be accused of crimes of which she's already been convicted? Waste of time, waste of resources.

Waste of life.

Sikozu stood at the back of the crowd gathered in the officers' lounge. Like the others, her eyes were fixed on the large monitor displaying the trial of Officer Aeryn Sun, Icarian Company, Plysar Regiment. The trial chamber was small, the tribunal even smaller: a sub-admiral and two captains. That alone spoke volumes about the defendant's victim: Grayza didn't even rank an admiral to address justice on her behalf. But this, this little charade wasn't really about justice. Grayza had gotten what she deserved. The point here was to demonstrate that order would always be maintained, that command could never be thwarted without repercussion, that lowly soldiers should never assume they had the right to make autonomous decisions.

There really was no point.

Six armored and heavily armed SSD's brought the assassin to stand before a long table where the trio of judges sat at their ease. She wore enough restraints to disable a koloran panther: wrists, ankles, and more. She had the dull-eyed, blank-faced look of one under heavy sedation. At some point she must've fought - or else, they expected her to fight at some point in the future.

Beside the defendant stood Scorpius, cool and contained and disdainful of everything around him. Gone was the anger he'd initially displayed when told of Sun's arrest; now all that remained was displeasure, and an unbreakable desire to have his favorite tool back in his possession.

Scorpius hated to lose.

A Scarren-Sebacean war was imminent - he'd better get used to it.

Sikozu watched and listened as the mock-trial began.

"Officer Aeryn Sun, Icarian Company, Plysar Regiment, you stand accused of numerous charges, hereby listed as follows," Sub-Admiral Lorvet announced, and proceeded to read a list that took nearly a quarter arn to relate.

The defendant stood unflinching, unmoving the entire time. Scorpius didn't look at her even once.

"How do you respond to these charges?" Lorvet demanded, his face carved into a severe frown.

Scorpius began to respond.

"Guilty," Aeryn Sun said loudly. For a woman under heavy sedation, her voice was remarkably firm, only slightly slurred at the end. "I'm guilty, you incompetent cowards. I did everything you said and more - and I enjoyed it. Freedom carries its own -"

The blow from an SSD's rifle butt sent her careening into Scorpius, who was forced back a few steps by her sudden weight.

In the lounge, the crowd broke into a hundred voices.

Sikozu shook her head. "Stupid, Aeryn," she muttered softly.

There was no way to save her now.

In return for her performance before the tribunal, the assassin was given the dubious reward of solitary confinement. To her benefit, she didn't have to share the small space with anyone else; on the other hand, it was remarkably easy to forget someone locked into a dark closet.

Sikozu took a container of water and a package of foodcubes when she went to Aeryn's cell two solar days later.

The dark haired woman didn't bother to stand when the cell door slid open. She sat on the blanketless bunk, shackled wrists before her, back against the wall, and stared at nothing. They hadn't bothered to bring her a physician, and her face was molted with fresh bruises, courtesy of the tribunal guards.

"Are you still alive?" Sikozu asked dryly as she entered the cell.

"Does it matter?" Aeryn countered, her voice low and hoarse and semi-drugged.

Sikozu moved to sit on the bunk beside her, offered her the food and water. "How long since you've had either?"

Aeryn took the items. "Don't know."

Don't care. Sikozu heard the unspoken words in her voice.

The assassin fumbled open the container and drank deeply. "Thought it might be raslak," she said after a moment.

"I don't take requests," Sikozu replied, smiling to show she meant the words lightly.

Aeryn managed a bark of laughter. "Knew that. Thanks," she added, again taking a long drink.

"How are you doing?" The monitors in the cell were active, picking up both sight and sound. They had to be careful.

"I spent almost two monens as a Scarren prisoner," Aeryn answered. "This is a pleasure planet in comparison."

Sikozu didn't doubt that for an instant. She looked away from her former shipmate. "The Scarrens have stepped up their attacks, especially in the Uncharted Territories. D'Argo once told me that you'd met up with Scorpius in one of the breakaway colonies, an empire. It was during coronation time. Do you remember?"

"Yes," Aeryn said.

She had the assassin's full attention now. "All that remains of that empire is a solitary resistance, what was called the Royal Planet. They've sent pleas to the Peacekeepers for aid, but resources are thin already - and they don't have much to offer in exchange. The ruling monarch was murdered almost three cycles ago. The current Empress and Regent are young, inexperienced. They know less about military tactics than they do about being parents." She slid Aeryn a sideways glance.

Aeryn gazed down at her shackled wrists. "A baby."

"A girl with pale blue eyes and very fair hair," Sikozu added.

The assassin closed her eyes. "I'm already dead," she said quietly.

[]

They gave him food cubes and water, a bed and blanket, a place to bathe and a small window to see the distant stars. All he wanted was to close his eyes forever.

"What would Aeryn say about that, ace?" he muttered to the empty walls.

They probably though he'd go insane without companionship. Wrong! This wasn't his first brush with isolation - he still had Harvey, and all the others, too, if he imagined hard enough. D'Argo and Chiana, Rygel and Zhaan - even Aeryn and Suzhaana, from time to time. They came when he needed them.

They don't have to use isolation to drive you insane, idiot, he thought to himself. You're already a certified nutcase.

They, they, they - he didn't even know what to call his captors' race. Neeyala's people. That was how he identified them. They, them, the others - Neeyala's people.

It was almost funny. The last wormhole was supposed to take him back to the planet of his birth, back to the place he wanted to be buried. His last fling with wormholes, he'd told Rygel before leaving Moya.

His plans never worked.

He remembered negotiating the bumps and swirls, angling his module along the route some insistent voice told him to follow. He remembered thinking of Aeryn standing beside the Christmas tree that one time they'd both been on Earth. Then - he remembered seeing another ship, and realizing there wasn't a way to avoid a collision -

Neeyala's people. Not the Ancients this time, just another race of creatures out to make his life miserable. If he had something they wanted, they weren't giving him any hints about it. He didn't know how much time had passed, how much more would pass before the situation changed.

Time. He'd always thought he didn't have enough of it; now it was all he had.

It was almost funny. Almost.

[]

The power generators were functioning again, but the energy they created was desperately needed in a hundred places. Far beneath the surface, a solitary light drove back the shadows in a small room where a Nebari sang to a half human, half Sebacean infant.

D'Argo sat in a pool of darkness, his Qualtablade across his knees, a sharpening cloth in his hand. Chiana was singing the lullaby she'd learned in a mining colony, the one she'd used to sing to Suzhaana; she still didn't know all the words, and changed the lyrics with each rendition.

The child she rocked in her arms was Crichton's, but not Aeryn's. D'Argo wasn't certain how he felt about that. This child would rule and empire - or what was left of it - but she'd never have the innate warrior's skills of fighting and survival. She'd learn to apply cosmetics, probably never learn to clean a pulse pistol. If she learned how to fly a ship, it would probably be a luxury transport, not a prowler.

Her eyes were just as blue as Suzhaana's, even if her hair was fair rather than dark.

This child's name was Kriteen, named by the mother in honor of the father. Crichton hadn't been Katralla's first love or first choice for a mate, but he had been the one to guarantee her right to succession. Not that it mattered to Chiana - the Nebari still called her Zhaana most of the time. She had Katralla and Tyno half convinced that "Zhaana" meant "beloved" in her native tongue. But Chiana had always spoken her own language, so perhaps it was partially true.

D'Argo watched Chiana bounce the infant the way she used to bounce Suzhaana. The child gurgled happily; it seemed Crichton's characteristics ran true in all his offspring.

He'd been on the Royal Planet almost a monen. The once glorious empire was now in ruins, all but destroyed by the Scarrens. Of billions of subjects, now only a few thousand remained, barely enough to hold the planet, and the numbers trickled downwards every solar day. The Peacekeepers weren't just refusing to help - they refused to even answer the pleas for aid. Katralla and Tyno were being punished for nineteen hundred cycles of independence. D'Argo wondered how many other unaligned planets had taken heed of the Peacekeepers' warning and joined their coalition just in case Scarren eyes should glance their direction.

The Royal Planet would fall, and soon - a monen, maybe less. D'Argo didn't intend to be around when the Scarrens finally fought their way to the surface, and he wasn't leaving without Chiana.

And Chiana wasn't leaving without Kriteen.

Crichton and Aeryn had torn each other to pieces over Suzhaana's death. The Nebari figured returning a child to them would mend the breech.

His love had gone farbotz. He'd attempted to explain how the logic was flawed, why her idea wouldn't work. She'd only stared at him, not even offering a single protest. She'd learned that from Aeryn, D'Argo was certain: Don't waste energy fighting a battle you've already won. His options were limited. He could go without her. He could render her unconscious and take him with her.

He stayed and waited for the inevitable.

[]

"Reports now in, Your Highness," the blurry-eyed soldier reported. "We've lost the third and fourth outposts."

Katralla glanced up from the child cradled in her arms. "Survivors?"

The soldier shook his head.

"Frell," D'Argo muttered. In a louder voice he said, "You've got to retreat, Empress. This planet is going to be overrun by Scarrens. Regent, tell her." He looked to Tyno.

The Regent wearily rubbed his forehead. "We can't abandon our people, General D'Argo."

Chiana's eyes wondered around the audience hall. The chamber was crowded with people: one-time aristocrats, homeless commoners, battle-soiled soldiers. Mostly soldiers. The last of the Imperial Paladins stood close to the royal family, all that remained of the former establishment. Chiana wondered if any of them could be convinced to smuggle the child out for her own safety.

The Nebari knew things were spiraling downwards; she didn't need a vision to see that. Zhaana (Kriteen) had to be kept safe, needed to be returned to Moya, where Crichton and Aeryn could keep her safe. D'Argo thought she was tinked for thinking like this. She thought he was kinkoid for disagreeing with her.

A commotion at the end of the hall attracted her attention. Chiana watched as the crowd was forced to part, clearing a path to Empress and Regent.

Three soldiers drove a black clad figure forward, using their rifles to prod the captive along when he stumbled or hesitated. At last they reached the head of the hall.

"Empress, we found this Peacekeeper within the palace walls, searching chambers for something she wouldn't name," the tallest soldier explained. "We don't know how she got past the defenses - "

"On you knees, Peacekeeper cretada," one of the other guards commanded. His shove was hard enough to send the figure crashing to the floor.

D'Argo drew closer. Something about the Peacekeeper seemed familiar -

"By the goddess," Chiana whispered. She dropped to her knees beside the captive. "Aeryn?"

Aeryn offered her the ghost of a smile. "Why am I not surprised to find you here?"

Chiana didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry. With trembling hands she reached out to trace the shape and pattern of Aeryn's face: the scars, bruises old and new, broken bones. She'd been beaten at some point, her nose broken and healed. Her hands were bound with a scrap of something that might once have been red velvet. She was bleeding sluggishly from a wound above the left knee.

"What did you do?" the Nebari howled at the guards. "She's a friend!"

"They didn't know, Chiana," D'Argo said, stepping forward. He caught Aeryn under an arm and helped her to stand. "You look like dren."

"Tactful as ever," Aeryn returned. She glanced at Tyno. "I followed a Scarren striker down to the surface. There are two, possibly three marauders following me. I'm maybe an arn ahead of them - and that's a big 'maybe.' Your security has significant problems."

"You're saying there are Scarrens on the planet? Here, now?" The Regent turned to the closest guards and began snapping orders.

"That's impossible," Katralla denied. "We've maintained surface integrity."

"Is that the baby?" Aeryn asked, ignoring her words. She stumbled forward, D'Argo supporting her.

Katralla cradled the child closer and took two steps back. "Keep your place," she demanded. The Paladins drew closer to her.

"Let her see," Chiana said. "That's her mate's child. Her child -"

"My child," the Empress snapped. "Remove the Peacekeeper," she told the three soldiers still surrounding Aeryn.

The soldiers had no chance to obey. Gunfire erupted in the great hall, seeming to come from ten places at once. Screams and shouts filled the air as people fled and panicked, searching for safety and shelter. The Paladins around the royal family formed a solid ring, including D'Argo, Chiana and Aeryn within the circle. The Luxan released Aeryn to turn his Qualtablade upon the crowd, searching for the source of the weapons fire.

Chiana watched Aeryn pull a small something from her belt, crush it in her hand and inhale the contents. "What-what's that?"

In response, Aeryn lept forward, snatched the loudly wailing infant from Katralla, and bolted through the ring of Paladins.

If it had been Scarrens to initiate chaos in the hall, the creatures had managed to disappear again amazingly fast, leaving no trace of their departure. In the wake of the disaster, ten were dead, three were missing, and the royal heir had been abducted.

Katralla was outraged. "Bring me that Peacekeeper tralk! I'll nail her skin to the palace walls!"

The Regent was more concerned with the security breech. "I want a thorough search of the entire grounds. If Scarrens are here, we need to know now," he told the soldiers.

Chiana left the royal parents to their problems. She slipped away, was halfway down a corridor before she realized D'Argo was behind her. "You can move quietly, for a big guy."

"You know that wasn't the Scarrens back there," the Luxan countered. "The Peacekeepers - they're here. The child can't go with Aeryn, Chiana. Aeryn herself once said that you can't take a child from its mother -"

"This is different," Chiana interrupted. "This is way different."

D'Argo shook his head. "You think you know where she's going?"

"Yes."

Crichton's old chambers. D'Argo couldn't guess why Chiana thought Aeryn would bring the child here.

"Because she went over every dench of it after Crichton was attacked," the Nebari answered when asked. "She didn't want any more surprises. You hear that, Aeryn? I know you're in here."

The room was completely dark, no different from any other of the chambers they'd passed; the generators couldn't supply enough energy for the entire palace. This wing was both dark and supposedly unoccupied, although there were signs here and there of life: a broken vase, footprints in the dust.

D'Argo scanned the darkness. Nothing moved.

"Come on, Aeryn," Chiana coaxed. "Y-you need us to help you. You know the Peacekeepers are here."

"Where's Lo'La?"

There, behind them. D'Argo spun to find Aeryn squeezed into a small space between two dressers, a bundle that had to be the child cradled to her chest. Holstering his Qualtablade, he went forward to offer her a hand up. "Not far from here. Chiana said she saw you take a stimulant. How much longer will it last?"

"Quarter arn, maybe less." She held out the infant to him; her wrists were still bound. "I've got more. It's a cofix root mix."

Chiana skipped forward to take Kriteen, leaving D'Argo to cut Aeryn's bonds. "That's - that's dangerous stuff. A hard habit to kick." And fatal, if overused.

"I'm currently being held over before a military tribunal for executing Grayza," Aeryn replied. "I've got more pressing problems. Now, where exactly is Lo'La?"

"Just outside the palace itself, well inside the main grounds. You'll never get past the guards," he added before she could ask.

Aeryn only grunted. "Go prime her for departure. Chiana and I will meet you there."

"I don't think - " Chiana began.

"No arguments," Aeryn snarled. Seeing the infant stir in Chiana's arms, she continued in a softer voice, "There are Scarrens here. There are commandos here. I don't have time for debates. You and D'Argo are going to take the child and get the frell out of here. I'm going to take the prowler and try to divert the commandos. The Empress and Regent can occupy the Scarrens."

"They're being slaughtered," D'Argo growled, not because he didn't like the idea of getting his beloved and his best friend's child away from danger, but because Aeryn's plan smacked of abandonment and betrayal.

"We're all being slaughtered," the assassin returned. "Staying here won't help anyone. Now go - and leave me that spare pulse pistol I know you're carrying somewhere."

He passed guards and groups of civilians on his way to Lo'La. The scent of fear and adrenaline lingered in the air, musty and strong. No one was alone - the terror of Scarren-filled shadows kept people together and armed, ready to fire at the least provocation. The shadows of desperation in their eyes made guilt swallow his soul.

"Stop there, Luxan."

D'Argo turned to at the command. He wasn't surprised to see Regent Tyno accompanied by a small escort of Paladins, all of them training weapons on him. "I don't have her," he said honestly, held out his empty hands as proof.

Tyno stepped closer, looked up to meet his eyes. "On your honor, Luxan - where is she?"

Aeryn or Kriteen? It didn't matter. "On my honor as a warrior, Regent - she'll be dead in a monen if she stays here," D'Argo answered. It was true for either female.

The Regent held his gaze for a long moment, then exhaled heavily and looked away. "She's the future, General Ka D'Argo. If I let her go. . ."

"Think of what will happen if you don't," the Luxan countered.

"Katralla will never forgive me," Tyno said, bowing his head. "But I might be able to forgive myself."

[]

Chiana blindly followed Aeryn through the darkness, the winding corridors, the exposed balconies overlooking the empty halls. How did she know where to go? Best not to ask. She cradled the infant closely and kept to Aeryn's heels.

"How'd you get off the carrier?" Chiana asked once, when the silence became too oppressive.

"Sikozu released me from solitary confinement, arranged for a prowler to be waiting," Aeryn answered, not glancing back.

"Solitary confinement? Sounds like fun," the Nebari said lightly. "Surprised they didn't give you any company."

Aeryn paused at an open doorway, cautiously glanced through before passing. "They did. I terminated them."

Chiana suddenly had images of snapped necks and crushed skulls flash through her mind. She refrained from asking any more questions.

The child slept soundly, despite the jostle of movement.

"Almost there," Aeryn encouraged.

The pulse rifle fire was unexpected and intense, catching them just before they made it across an open chamber. Chiana shrieked and ducked, quickly scampered back to the safety of the corridor while Aeryn returned fire with D'Argo's pistol. The assassin manually forced the chamber door closed behind them as Kriteen began to fuss.

"Go, go," Aeryn urged, shoving Chiana forward, down the corridor and into another dark chamber. "Here." She slammed the door, dragged a table to block it. "There's a window over there. Get outside."

"We're three levels up!"

"So don't look down. There's a ledge - go down a few windows and reenter through a different chamber. Get to D'Argo."

Chiana shook her head. In her arms, the child fussed. "What about you?"

Aeryn smoothed Kriteen's head with one hand while the other fumbled for a pouch at her belt. "Those are commandos, Chiana. They won't concern themselves with you if you're gone." She pressed something cool into the Nebari's hand, something small and metal. "That belonged to Crichton's mother. Give it to his daughter when she's ready."

Again Chiana shook her head, ready to wail like the child. "Oh no-"

The door was hammered with pulse fire, sharp staccato bursts that nearly melted it into liquid form.

Aeryn thrust her towards the window. "Now, Chiana!"

The Nebari would've liked to be able to tell Suzhaana (Kriteen) that she saw her mother die a hero's death for a noble cause. In truth, she stood on a ledge at sunrise and saw nothing but the coming day.

Aeryn's ring in her hand, Crichton's child in her arms, Chiana pressed the infant into her chest to muffle her wails, turned her own face towards the brilliant morning light to block out the image of Aeryn standing alone in an empty room, death across the threshold.

[]

He still had Harvey. He wasn't exactly grateful for the neural-clone, but it was a relief not to be alone. Sometimes, anyway. Talking to the clone kept him from slipping that last step into insanity.

The window helped, too. Never night and never day, the pale stars hung above his solitary access to the universe at all times, although their positions were seldom constant. He'd create one constellation only to find it shifted and gone when he glanced away. Still, as long as he could see the stars, he could remember what it'd been like to pass among them, what it'd been like to be free.

But sometimes even Harvey and the stars weren't enough to hold his mind. Sometimes he looked around at the walls surrounding him, the grey walls that locked him away, and he wondered if he'd ever really been anywhere else, seem anything else, met anyone else. Perhaps what he called memories were really only illusions, what he called adventures only fables. Maybe nothing was real; maybe this in itself was only a story, and soon the author would tire of its telling. How would the story end? He'd always liked ambiguous conclusions, the kind that left the reader to make the final decision, but he thought, just this once, he'd like a happy ending.

When things seemed completely hopeless, Aeryn would come. She'd appear looking as she had that first monen, scowling and in uniform, or she'd come dressed in her usual leathers with a half-smile etched onto her face. Usually she'd come alone, but every once in a while she'd bring Zhaana. Sweet Zhaana, who looked like her mother with his sister's lopsided smile. His smile. His daughter - his and Aeryn's.

He didn't know how or even when the stranger entered his cell. One instant he was sitting beside Aeryn on the bed, and the next he found himself beside one of Neeyala's people.

Crichton sprang to his feet and put as much distance between himself and the stranger as possible.

The male watched him stoically, pupil-less eyes revealing nothing. His oval-shaped head bore the greenish stripes of all his kind, and his skin carried an odd tinge of lavender. His earslits with their poisonous barbs were firmly closed. His large hands were empty.

"Don't you ever knock?" Crichton demanded, although they never did.

Watching him closely, the alien said, "I am Resssearcher Thessit. You are Johhhn Criiteen."

"John Crichton," the human corrected. "Yes. I thought you couldn't understand my language."

"I ssstuddied the microorganisms in your brain, removed a sssample, and cloned them. I injected myself with the resultsss, just as you did to Pathfinder Neeyala." The male sounded like a serpent, heavily accenting the "s" in his words.

"A sample," Crichton echoed, running a hand over the back of his neck. "When-?" When you were sleeping, Johnny boy. Did you forget you're a prisoner? He missed D'Argo and Aeryn - and Winnona. Especially Winnona. "Why are you keeping me here?"

Researcher Thessit shifted on the bunk. "What do you know of my people?" he countered.

How should he answer that? "Not much," he confessed. True, but not a foolish confession. Words like photonic distorter and phaztillion generator floated through his mind.

The alien nodded. "As I thought. We are the Ilano'sslan. There is no literal translation for this title. It means Those Who Fight for the Way Home." He paused expectantly.

"So you're lost," Crichton supplied. Big wow - there were a lot of lost people in the galaxy. "I'm not good at finding lost things."

"You are more ignorant than Neeyala reported," Thessit muttered. "Listen, alien, and I will attempt to explain. Are you at all familiar with the bonds shared between time and space?"

Oh god, not again. It was Einstein all over again, only with green skin and a more pronounced accent. "Yeah, yeah, space-time continuum - already sat through that lecture and passed that test."

The researcher tilted his head, then shrugged away Crichton's words. "I will take that gibberish as an affirmative answer. You clearly know about wormholes. At least you understand a few fundamental theories." He clicked his tongue. "My people, the Ilano'sslan, are very - advanced. Ours is an ancient race. We have recorded the events of importance for millions of cycles. Unfortunately, we became arrogant in our superiority, careless in our advancement."

"Pride goeth before a fall," Crichton said, because he'd heard this story a hundred times and lived it once or twice himself.

"We did not fall," Thessit corrected, "we annihilated ourselves. A ship went out to explore a distant planet for colonization; when it returned, our civilization was gone, destroyed, ancient ashes among the stars. Nothing remained. But the people on the ship were scientists, researchers, the best in their fields. They used a wormhole to shift backwards in time, to return home before the civilization was destroyed." He paused, looked at Crichton expectantly. "Do you understand that you cannot do such a thing and remain untouched?"

"Consequences," Crichton guessed. "A reaction for every action. Cause and effect."

"In its most elementary form," the researcher allowed. "The people on the research vessel altered the course of time in ways they couldn't imagine. People long dead were suddenly alive. Children found themselves parentless - their biological ancestors had never met. Young became old, male became female, buildings turned to plants. . . In despair, a scientist from the original vessel shifted back in time, then horizontally, then back again. He called forth the same destination at every pause, always the same place. At last, his constant shifts drew our homeworld into a vortex, a place suspended among wormholes. Our true place in the universe was lost."

Crichton shook his head. "Wait - wait a minute. You're saying that your world - your entire planet - got sucked into a wormhole?"

"Into the place where all wormholes exist," clarified Thessit. "Into the space where time and matter are one. We have been searching for a thousand cycles for a way to free our world. Research vessels are sent out, can traverse the wormholes with relative ease. They search for the place in both time and space where our world belongs."

It was crazier than Stark on a bad day. Impossible? He didn't know. "That sucks," he said. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Thessit watched him closely. "Pathfinder Neeyala was close to finding what we so desperately seek. Her knowledge died with her when you killed her and destroyed the ship Rado sss'lana. You are going to correct that error."

Crichton considered the alien's words. "Oh no," he said finally. "Sorry, but no way. I've already done my share of gambling with the timeline. All I ever do is make things worse."

The researcher blinked slowly. "This is not a request, John Crichton."

[]

Rumor said that Aeryn Sun returned to the command carrier in so many pieces that a box should have been sent to retrieve her rather than the marauder teams.

Sikozu wasn't there when the assassin arrived. It would've been too much of a risk - thus far, no one had traced the traitor's escape back to her. Foresight and preparation she'd learned from Scorpius; stealth and secrecy she'd learned on her own.

At any rate, she didn't have to wait long to hear the true results of Aeryn's recapture. Scorpius returned to his quarters barely an arn after the assassin's return, as she'd known he would. His cooling rod required replacement.

"She's alive, if you use the word loosely," the halfbreed snarled. Not only was his cooling rod bright red, but steam was leaking from the insertion point. "The fools all but destroyed her. Incompetent fools! And she's no better - I would've been able to save her before this, but now -" He finished with a snarl.

Sikozu carefully replaced red rod with blue and activated the retraction switch. As the mechanism spiraled the new rod into place, she said, "Your loyalty to her is impressive. Do you treat all your allies as well - or do you have some purpose for her?"

The Kalish already half suspected the answer. Scorpius was not one for sentimentality - he was practical and logical, not foolishly emotional. It was a trait they shared. It was how she knew he was keeping something from her, something important.

The halfbreed glanced up at her from where he reclined on the sedan. "You already know the answer to that," he replied vaguely, watching for her response.

There was only one thing that Scorpius had ever truly cared about, one matter that he would ever concern himself with. "Wormholes," she supplied easily. She turned to replace the red rod in its recycling unit.

"Yes," Scorpius agreed, sounding relieved that she had known. "Her ability to sense their presence is phenomenal. The DNA lent to her by Moya's Pilot is a gift beyond compare - to us. If we can study her, learn how she adapted to such a change, we can graft the genes onto all Peacekeepers. Imagine - soldiers with the ability to sense wormholes, perhaps even create them. Imagine if we could enhance the properties to include multi-tasking and other genetic traits inherent to Pilots. Then, then we would be a formidable enemy against the Scarrens!" He growled low in his throat. "But all those plans will turn to ash if Aeryn Sun dies. We need her alive, to study . . ."

Sikozu forced her hands to continue moving, carefully schooled her face into a bored mask as she listened to Scorpius talk. All this time and she'd never known - never even guessed. . . What else was he hiding from her?

She shrugged. "You can always experiment on someone else," she nonchalantly suggested.

But around and around in her mind ran the thought What else is he keeping from me?

"There isn't time," Scorpius growled.

Why not? she wondered.

The Kalish waited patiently for a solar day to pass before she went in search of the assassin. High Command wasn't taking any chances this time - until the tribunal members could be returned to the carrier, Aeryn Sun was to be kept under the highest level of security available. Once the members were aboard, they would pronounce her sentence immediately; almost certainly it would involve some form of public execution.

How disappointed High Command would be if the traitor died prematurely.

The guards were reluctant to admit her to Aeryn's cell. She had to remind them that surveillance within the chamber was active, that they would know instantly if Sun attempted any escape, and finally that she, Sikozu, had full authority to see the traitor as she was a special ambassador from the Kalish people.

The ignorant guards were actually foolish enough to accept her last lie, and granted her admission to the cell.

Two blankets, no furniture of any sort, minimal sanitary facilities, an untouched mug of water and plate of foodcubes, one dull lighting panel, a host of shadows - the chamber was small by any standards. On one of the blankets lay a shadow darker than the rest, unmoving and still.

Sikozu took the few steps to the corner and knelt down. "Aeryn." Softly, no more than a whisper.

The infamous Aeryn Sun, deserter and assassin, mate of John Crichton, lay where she'd been dumped, silent and still. Her hands were bound by metal restraints. Her boots were gone, the tendons on the back of her heels ruthlessly sliced to prevent flight. She bore other cuts and bruises everywhere, evidence of resistance; her face was so swollen it was difficult to make out exact features. She stank of blood and defeat.

"Oh Aeryn," Sikozu sighed, because it wasn't supposed to be like this. Not with Aeryn, never with Aeryn. This was as bad as being back in Scarren territory. The Peacekeepers had more in common with their enemies than they'd ever admit. "Can you hear me?" Pause. "Are you alive?"

"'Kozu." Somewhere between a groan and a sigh, the voice came with a low gurgle, the sound of fluid in the lungs - the sound of death. The shadow tried to move, only succeeded in twitching, quickly gave up the effort.

"Be still," Sikozu said. She leaned down to hear Aeryn's whisper, smoothed back a strand of darkness clinging to the assassin's lips. "Don't be dramatic. I've brought painkiller." She slid a tablet into Aeryn's mouth, then another, noticed the dried blood along her hairline and added another. "They'll dissolve faster if you can get them under your tongue."

A handful of microts passed, then a few more. Sikozu knew the anesthetic was beginning to work when Aeryn let out a long, low sigh. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank you." Aeryn turned her head just a little to look up at the woman leaning over her. "Surveillance?"

"Of course," the Kalish answered with a smile. "But only visual. I've got auditory blocked, so as long as you don't do anything heroic, they'll think I'm looking at a half dead traitor."

"Which is exactly what you're doing." She grimaced and coughed a little. "No heroics. Promise."

Sikozu couldn't resist berating her just a little. "You weren't supposed to get caught again. Even Scorpius can't save you this time."

Aeryn managed a half-shrug. "Doesn't matter."

Odd to hear Aeryn accept defeat so casually. "I'm certain it matters to Crichton."

"Crichton." She said the word like a curse or a prayer. "He's long gone, back to his own homeworld. I watched him go."

What was she saying? Was this some delusion of fever, some result of head trauma? "When?"

Aeryn coughed again, and fluid could clearly be heard with every indrawn breath. "Before the frelling tribunal - before Sub-Admiral Lorvet."

Sikozu remembered Braca and a marauder team delivering Aeryn to Sub-Admiral Lorvet, remembered the absolutely dead look in the assassin's eyes. Only now was Aeryn's body catching up with her mind.

Scorpius. Her mind kept returning to him. He'd ordered Braca to take Aeryn out on the marauder. He'd deliberately kept Crichton and Aeryn apart. It didn't make sense.

Lies. Wormholes. Scarrens and Peacekeepers. Aeryn and Crichton.

Lies.

Wormholes.

Revenge.

Perhaps - perhaps it did make sense. . .

"Scorpius wants to study you," Sikozu said softly, leaning down to whisper the words close to Aeryn's ear. "He wants to graft Pilot trails onto Sebaceans."

That evoked a shallow, breathy laughter from the assassin. "That's already been tried. Nearly killed me - would've killed me - if not for John. . ."

It was the laughter more than the words that convinced Sikozu of Aeryn's uninvolvement. Half bitter, half sad, the sound carried a thousand different meanings, none of them related to Scorpius. Sikozu closed her eyes, thinking thinking thinking.

She was almost certain she knew what was happening. All the signs pointed one way.

There was a traitor aboard the carrier, but it wasn't Aeryn Sun.

It was like being back aboard the border station again, trying to gain clearance for access to Katratzi. Only this time, the enemy was unclear, unknown, everyone and no one. There weren't any comrades here who she could ask for aid. She was alone - which was no different than she'd ever been, she supposed.

How ironic it would be if the one she'd held as her closest ally turned out to be one of the enemy. Over the cycles she'd given him information about the Kalish resistance, Scarren weaknesses (inherent and technological), biloids. . .everything she she'd thought might be an advantage for the Peacekeepers in the coming war.

Fool. Stupid fool.

But she could be wrong. This suspicion could be meaningless, groundless, unreasonable -

It didn't feel unreasonable. It wasn't groundless. And it certainly had meaning.

Betrayal sat like a stone on her tongue. She was careful to keep her face blank.

[]

She entered Scorpius' quarters as she had a thousand times before. He wasn't there. She knew where he kept his ident chip, and she'd watched him enter pass codes so often that she'd memorized the lengthy keys. How easy it was to sit down at the interface and pretend to be him.

How hard it was to lose the last of her innocence.

[]

It wasn't like reading a data disk, designed to impart the main points in an easy-to-follow listing. It was more like sifting through metras of stone to find a gem.

There were gaps - of course, there were gaps - some the size of an access key, some the size of a Gammak base. One was three cycles large, another the size of a half human, half Sebacean child. Nothing was obvious - if the reader didn't know what to look for, the pattern would be easy to miss, so easy.

"What are you doing?"

Sikozu was careful not to jump, spin around to face the intruder. How had she not heard the door open? Maybe he had his own access. He'd been here for cycles, was just as involved as she. Accomplice or minion? Difficult to tell.

He wasn't holding a weapon on her - he didn't need to. If he knew she'd been digging through the files, if he suspected she knew - "What are you doing here, Braca?"

Slowly he came closer. "I'll ask the questions, Kalish." His eyes were carefully guarded, revealing nothing.

She gambled; she had little to lose. "You know, don't you? You've been close to him for long enough that you'd have to know." She looked up at him and smiled. "Scorpius is brilliant, but arrogant. Of course he'd rely on someone, thinking they'd never betray him. Someone intelligent, loyal, willing to fight for a noble cause." Someone like her - someone like him.

Braca shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Kalish. Scorpius would never -"

They both heard the door in the adjacent room slide open. Their eyes met for an instant.

Sikozu pushed back in the chair and stood away from the console just as Scorpius entered the room.

"Sikozu, I've had a report -" The halfbreed halted, finding both of them in the chamber. He glanced from one to the other, slowly smiled. "Did I miss the conference?" There was a sharp edge to both words and smile.

"Sir, the Kalish has betrayed you," Braca blurted quickly. He pointed an accusing finger at Sikozu. "I found her pawing through your files -"

"He's not going to believe you, you lying worm," Sikozu returned coldly, fighting down panic. She had to stay calm. "You've been reporting on him for cycles now - confess it! High Command planted you -"

"Not true!" Braca cried, looking panicky with his wide, gullible eyes. "Sir, you know I'd never -"

"He won't believe your lies, traitor," Sikozu threw back. She dared a glance at the halfbreed. "Tell him, Scorpius."

Scorpius wasn't smiling anymore. "Braca, have Graza's supporters contacted you since her death? You have more cause than Sikozu to -"

Braca glanced frantically from Kalish to halfbreed. "No, no!" he denied. "Frell you, Kalish - " In his hand appeared a pulse pistol. He quickly aimed and fired.

Sikozu dodged one way, Scorpius the other. She heard the halfbreed growl and mutter something inaudible as he took cover behind the console. For her part, she scrambled towards the sleeping chamber, where she kept a small weapon under her spare clothing. Carefully she dodged into the empty room, but Braca's shots went wide, glancing off the hatchway and bulkheads.

A different weapon-discharge made her pause, duck around the corner to see what was happening.

Scorpius stood beside the console, pulse pistol in his hand. Braca lay sprawled at his feet, a crimson stain quickly spreading across his chest.

Sikozu retrieved her weapon anyway before returning to the chamber. She was going to need it.

It was doubtful the halfbreed had killed Braca - he'd want him alive for interrogation. And even if the Peacekeeper was dead, he'd already managed to plant suspicions about her in Scorpius' mind. Her life as she had lived it for the past few cycles was over. Now only survival mattered.

Weapon clasped loosely in her hand, she went to stand beside Scorpius and look down at Braca. "Alive, I hope," she said, and didn't mean it.

"Of course." Scorpius glanced at her. "Did you plot my betrayal together?"

The question caught her by surprise, but only for a microt. She smiled just a little. "No, I've never doubted you, Scorpius." She took a step back, then another. "I answered your question honestly, so answer mine in kind. Did you ever have a moment's hesitation - even one microt - to wonder if you were making a mistake by allying yourself with both Peacekeepers and Scarrens?"

A flicker of surprise seemed to flash over the halfbreed's face, or perhaps it was only her imagination. "Both races hated me. Why should I feel any allegiance to either? Be realistic, Sikozu."

Then Sikozu had to laugh. "I lived under Scarren rule, Scorpius," she reminded him. "I had realism beaten into me before I knew my own name." She brought up her weapon, steadied it in trembling hands. "I never expected love between us. Love is an emotion for lesser species who lack strength and determination. But I always expected trust."

"I never betrayed you," Scorpius returned levelly. "Put the weapon down."

She shook her head. "You lied to me. No surprise, really - you lie to everyone. All this time I thought it was about wormholes, when really it was about revenge. You never wanted wormhole technology for the Peacekeepers - you wanted it for the Scarrens. Yet you betray Scarren strategy and technology to the Peacekeepers. You hate them both, want to see them exterminate each other while you watch. You say you wanted wormhole technology, but you allowed Crichton to return to his homeworld when all you had to do was save his child to get it. You say you protect Aeryn Sun to keep her favor, to study her, but she would've sold her life into your possession for her offspring's cure. I honestly don't know what game you're playing - I suspect that you're insane."

"Sikozu, listen to yourself," Scorpius replied, his voice gentle. "You're paranoid -"

"No," Sikozu said sharply, because he had stepped towards her. "It doesn't matter. In the end, all that matters is that you're working for the Scarrens, and that endangers the Kalish resistance."

"You're wrong on a number of accounts," Scorpius told her. "I did trust you."

Of the two of them, he was faster: he had his pistol aimed and discharged while she was still listening to his last words echo around the chamber. She fired as she dodged aside; the shot went wide, struck a bulkhead. But even as she was scrambling for cover (again!), another shot came, not from Scorpius' pistol, but from a different weapon. Something heavy fell to the deck, and the room became silent except for rough breathing - hers, and another's.

Cautiously she stood, didn't see Scorpius, slowly stepped away from her cover. The halfbreed was sprawled against the data console, his weapon dropped from loose fingers, his face mostly gone.

"Dead?" Braca panted.

"You tell me." The Kalish glanced from the captain to the halfbreed, back again to the captain. Pale-faced, hand pressed to his wound, Braca still clung to the pistol in his grasp. "You always knew, didn't you," she guessed.

"Not always," Braca answered, watching blood creep around his fingers. "High Command - always suspicious. Not a pureblood. When Crais left, I was told to watch Scorpius. Funny - I was a soldier before that Gammak base."

Scorpius had survived worse. Foresight and preparation - even that wouldn't save him if he was decapitated. As for Braca - she couldn't leave him alive, either. He knew too much about her, too much about the resistance. All this time she'd thought he belonged to Scorpius, when really it was the other way around. How unfortunate that she'd spent so much time despising the man who was most like her.

She raised her weapon.

Braca half smiled at her. "We'll both receive hero's services. You'll be hailed - as a traitor. Ironic, isn't it? I always thought he'd be the only one left when the debris settled."

So had she. She made neither apologies nor rationales.

Braca was a Peacekeeper. He didn't want them, anyway.

[]

She still had a few people who were loyal to her. Not as many as before Aeryn's first rescue, of course, but a few remained.

She didn't have a concise reason why she was determined to use the last denches of her influence to again secure the assassin's release. Perhaps it was because she saw reflections of herself in the Peacekeeper - a woman forced into situations beyond her control, who made the most of what she was given and somehow managed to achieve a remarkable amount. Perhaps it was because, for all her crimes, both real and alleged, the assassin had an amazingly simple spirit, unsoiled by remorse or regret. Or perhaps setting the assassin free from Peacekeeper control was simply her, Sikozu's, final revenge against Scorpius.

It was a weak plan, with the possibility of success marginal at best. It was Katratzi all over again: create a diversion, grab the target, run run run. Only this time, she didn't have anyone to trust, not like the crew of Moya had had each other. Time was short, and not a single microt could be spent on regret, but for a solitary instant she thought, I'd do things differently if I could go back. I'd trust more, criticize less, and take nothing for granted.

Two things she recognized now: it was good to have loyalists among techs, and a good sensor ghost should never be underestimated. By the time she reached Aeryn's cell, the call to battle stations was in full effect. Peacekeepers were scrambling to prepare for the double set of Scarren dreadnaughts caught on the carrier's sense horizon; security for prisoners was minimal.

Only one guard stood watch over the assassin. Although the Peacekeeper was armed and helmeted, his nervousness was obvious: he glanced repeatedly from one end of the corridor to the other, clasped his riffle like an infant to his chest, rocked back and forth on his heels. When he hailed Sikozu, his voice was tight and clipped.

"What are you doing here?"

Sikozu rolled her eyes, jabbed a finger at the anti-grav unit floating behind her. "What does it look like I'm doing? Transferring the assassin back to the main prisoner population to streamline security needs." She waited a beat, added lazily, "Article Deka Six-Zero-Eight-Nine-Two, Subsection Four, Paragraph Four, Line Three. You are familiar with that regulation, aren't you, soldier?"

"Of course," the guard answered too quickly. "I was just wondering where the rest of the escort is, sir."

She had him scared. Fear was good. Again she rolled her eyes. "Did you hear anything I said, soldier? If you really are familiar with the Article, then you know that minimal escort is required. That Sebacean in there can barely move - I'd hardly classify her as a high flight risk. Now I know why Scorpius sent me - stupid grunts!"

The guard quickly turned and opened the cell door. The heavy steel slid back into the wall without a sound, revealing the same scene of a few arns before.

"Give me a few microts to prepare the prisoner," Sikozu instructed, holding up a med syringe. "I'll call for you when I'm ready. Until then, keep this door closed."

"Yes, sir." The guard saluted smartly, obediently shut the door behind her.

Aeryn lay in exactly the same position where Sikozu had left her. By the Kalish's calculations, the anesthetic tablets she'd given the assassin earlier should still be somewhat effective, but the deep lines across Aeryn's forehead and her short, shallow breaths screamed of unrelieved pain.

"How are you faring?" Sikozu asked, dropping down beside her. Heat was radiating from the Sebacean, but she trembled with chills. Fever.

"Fine," Aeryn whispered, blinking open closed eyes. "Didn't think you were coming back." The words made her cough, and it sounded as if she was drowning.

The assassin probably wouldn't make it to the prowler Sikozu had primed and waiting among the derelicts in the repair bay. But if she did, then at least she wouldn't die a prisoner in a cell, but out in clean space, among the stars she'd always loved.

"Brought you something," Sikozu said, holding up the med spike. "Stay still." She embedded the tip in the flesh between neck and shoulder, depressed the trigger. Aeryn didn't make a sound. "That should help. Now, I have a plan to get you off the carrier, but you're going to have to be able to fly a prowler. So I also brought these." She held out a handful of flat, round buttons.

"Cofix root?" Aeryn guessed.

"Oral. Highest potency available," Sikozu agreed. "One, and you'll feel invulnerable. Two, and you'll have so much energy you won't need a prowler to fly among the stars. Three, and you'll be unconscious. Four, and your heart will explode." There were five tablets in her hand.

Aeryn reached out, slowly laid a broken hand over Sikozu's. "Thank you," she said softly, meeting the Kalish's eyes.

And Sikozu, who'd been certain she would never feel anything again after she'd learned of Scorpius' betrayal, felt a sudden rush of warmth for the dying Peacekeeper beside her. If it was love or trust or friendship or some other emotion, she couldn't have said, but with it came the sharp bitterness of wasted time, and the sweeter tang of what might have been.

She smiled at Aeryn. "You're welcome." Then she turned her head and called for the guard.

[]

Neeyala's people were stubborn. It really wasn't surprising when Researcher Thessit simply disappeared rather than argue with him.

He was left to himself again for what seemed like a long time. Arns, days, maybe even a moen. Time didn't mean what it had when he'd been on Moya, among other people. In this place of perpetual twilight, this land of dawn and dusk, time meant nothing, or else meant whatever he wanted it to mean.

But if Researcher Thessit and the other Ilano'sslan - or whatever they called themselves - thought to punish him with this solitary confinement, they could think again. He didn't plan to stay on this lost rock forever. He might have lost everything in his life, his existence might not be worth dren, but he deserved a better death than this. Aeryn would've kicked his ass down the nearest wormhole if she'd seen him earlier, passive and meek, defeated and uncaring. He owed her memory more than that, hers and his daughter's.

So when Researcher Thessit appeared at some point Crichton could only recognize as "later," the human greeted the snake-man civilly.

"Hey, where you been? Here, let me give you a hand with that." Crichton eagerly went forward to take some of the equipment from the alien's grasp.

"Be gentle with that," the researcher warned, regarding Crichton suspiciously. "You seem reconciled to your path."

"Yes, change of heart," Crichton agreed. "I just want off this rock. If I have to help y'all to do that, then that's just the way things are. I do have a question, though: why me? Why not someone else?"

Researcher Thessit gently set down his equipment on Crichton's bunk. "As I said before, Neeyala and her crew were very close to answers we so desperately need. You were her murderer, you and the one called Aeryn Sun; you can prevent her death by traveling backwards in the timeline."

The words were like a cold dash of water over his head. You can prevent her death by traveling backwards in the timeline. He could save Aeryn - and Suzhaana. Far enough back, and maybe Zhaan could be helped as well. Gillina, too, maybe. He could save them all.

"How?" he asked simply. "Gonna put me in a ship and send me down the nearest wormhole?"

"Not at all," the alien said, clicking to himself. He began to organize the equipment on the bunk, making several small piles. "We have been conducting research for hundreds of cycles. Sending ships through wormholes is only one method for gathering data - arguably, the most dangerous, for family members if not for the scientists themselves."

"I remember," Crichton said, suddenly recalling why Neeyala and her crew had fought so hard to make it seem as if Moya was doomed. "Neeyala said if she and her people didn't return, their families would be executed. Why would your people do that?"

Thessit took a long, oval-shaped object and set it on the floor beneath the window. "It is the only way to keep our civilization together. Our best scientists would inevitably defect to other worlds, other universes if fear of family sacrifice did not bring them back. We are ancient, hew-mon - in all our travels, we have never encountered another culture equal to ours. This cannot be forsaken for personal gain." He gazed up at the stars, nodded and clicked to himself.

"What about timelines?" Crichton asked, watching Thessit place a round, mirror-like object in the center of the room. "Looks to me like you're going to open a window right here, right now. Why doesn't everyone else do the same?"

"Again, if a researcher is found missing, and the colleagues cannot account for their whereabouts, the immediate family is executed. Repercussions are swift, certain, and severe - and effective." The Ilano'sslan propped a metallic box atop a tripod-like device, proceeded to adjust knobs and sensors. "You, of course, shall not have that problem. Only your - how do you say - energy will go into the timeline, Your body will remain here, now, in this place."

"That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever," Crichton said honestly. "How am I supposed to know where to go? Does the timeline have a phonebook, a number for general information? How do I know if I'm doing it right?"

Thessit looked upwards and shook his head, muttered something in his own tongue. "Crichton, your energy is what makes you live. If your energy is shifted into another place, it is still your energy, yes? Yes. The energy that is you this instant is the same energy that was you a microt ago, the same energy you will be in two microts' time. Energy is - it never dissipates, only mutates. Energy is constant. Thus, you can direct your energy, if you will to. Time is constructed; energy is constant."

Oddly enough, Mr. High and Mighty Scientist sounded a lot like Stark. I have the energy, Stark had said more than once. And Unity - hadn't Zhaan called that a fusion of energy, of souls?

"How do you know Neeyala can change things?" he asked the scientist. "How do you know I can, or anyone can, for that matter? Why do you have so much faith that this is the one and only answer?"

The Ilano'sslan tisked and clicked. "This is not my first option, hew-mon. At one time, I was Pathfinder Thessit, captain of the research vessel Rado ss'lana, and she was Researcher Neeyala. I have altered the timeline in so many ways that my life is already forfeit. Now I rely on you, and whatever limited aid you can offer." He looked up at the stars. "You should be aware: every time I commanded the Rado ss'lana, Aeryn Sun terminated my corporeal body and her own to save your living ship, and you."

"Yeah, well, that's Aeryn," Crichton said lightly, although fear sat heavily in his chest. "Always consistent." He was going to fix things this time, set the timeline as it always should have gone. Energy, the alien said - energy was the key. He could work with that.

"It is time," Researcher Thessit announced.

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers, Thessit instructed.

He could only guess what that meant.

Direct your energy to the proper place, Thessit said.

He knew where he was going.

Nine. Seven. Five. Three. One.

Zero.

(Even or odd number?)

John Crichton blinks open his eyes, finds himself staring at a blank, golden wall. Moya. The hum would've told him where he is even if his eyes didn't. He knows where he is - but when is he?

Slowly he sits up, turns away from the wall. There, beside the bed (his bed, Aeryn's bed) stands the crib, and just inside lay a bundle of red silk. His breath catches in his throat. He crawls across the sheets, sets his hands on the crib rails and looks down.

His daughter looks back at him with wide blue eyes. Her dark hair is tussled from sleep; she tightly clasps a fistful of blankets in each hand.

"What a pretty little girl," he whispers, and reaches down to scoop up the child. She laughs and swats at his face with her pudgy hands.

He sits back down on his rump, cradling the child to his chest. He's done it; for once in his life, he's finally gotten something right. His daughter is alive, no hint of sickness about her. He blesses Researcher Thessit and all the Ilano'sslan, thanks the goddess of this universe and the god of his childhood. He gazes down at his beautiful daughter and can't help but smile, feeling both elated and humbled at the same instant.

"John."

Crichton glances up, finds a sober faced Luxan standing just beyond the grates. "D'Argo! Come in here and see this pretty girl."

D'Argo enters as he is bid, quietly comes to stand beside his friend. "John, we're ready to send Aeryn out when you're ready. Chiana volunteered to watch Suzhaana so you can have a private moment."

Crichton hears the serious note in D'Argo's voice. "Where's she going?" he asks suspiciously. "Did we have a fight about this already?"

"Don't you remember?" D'Argo returns gently. He drops to his haunches to better meet his friend's eyes. "John, Aeryn's dead. We're going to bury her in space, just like she always said she wanted."

Memory floods back, sharp and bitter - a commerce planet, a marketplace, his insistence to give Aeryn a break, watching Zhaana ride around on Rygel's thronesled, Aeryn and Chiana not showing up on time, finding Chiana in a back alley, realizing the Hokothians had his wife, getting the message from Scorpius that Aeryn had been retrieved.

Seeing her body. Full Peacekeeper regalia, not as a traitor but as an officer (Scorpius' doing.) Her skin cold, her eyes closed, the Ice Planet all over again, no Zhaan to bring her back this time. Dead dead dead.

He screams.

[]

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers. Direct your energy to the proper place.

Nine. Seven. Five. Three. One.

Zero.

(Odd or even number?)

John Crichton glides down the corridors, shadows clinging to his heels, the solitary light he carries the only slice of sanity in the darkness. He knows where he's going, can feel her calling him as surely as any siren's song.

The Charrids guarding the med bay are nervous, glancing up and down as if terror might descend from above or devour them from below; they fail to notice the obvious death approaching head-on. Two shots and they're down, two more guarantee they stay there. He calmly steps over them, intent on his path.

He remembers everything: a dead Leviathan, searching for a sensor distorter, Graza, Scarrens, a half-faced clone on Moya's Command. He's lived through these memories a hundred times, always says, You know we can't when she says, We should do it together. He makes the same mistake over and over (too late now to say sorry.)

This time, it's going to be different. He won't make the same mistake again.

It's darker than night in the med bay; his beam illuminates a scene different from the one of memory. Noranti is slouched against the foot of the bunk, a knife imbedded in her center eye; she's not moving. The Kalish physician is bent over Chiana, his back to the door.

Crichton doesn't hesitate, shoots to kill and doesn't ever regret it. He bounds down the steps, glances at Wrinkles (dead), turns to Chiana (suture over abdomen; unconscious), snaps around to bend over Aeryn. There's blood everywhere, everywhere, dark like the shadows, death in liquid form. She's got a gaping wound in her abdomen, he sees more than he ever wanted to know of Sebacean physiology.

He glances at her face, abhorrent of the sight before him, watches her smile just a little.

"Care. . .Chiana," Aeryn whispers, closes her eyes.

It's the False Earth all over again, Aeryn instead of Rygel on the vivisection table, no Ancients to snap their fingers and make everything right again. Dead dead dead.

He howls into the darkness.

[]

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers. Direct your energy to the proper place.

Nine, seven, five, three, one.

(Zero is not a number.)

John Crichton loves the woman he's aiming his pulse pistol at - it's not that he doesn't need her anymore, either - it's just that he needs to kill her more.

Damn those bugs. He's never going to take a vacation on this planet again.

It was supposed to be simple: fresh water, rest for Moya. Simple forgot to be notified of the plan: Chiana's kicked out in record time, Aeryn assassinates the Prefect. Bad, bad - but it gets worse. Bug bites Aeryn, she wants to kill a stranger; bug bites him, he wants to kill Aeryn.

The good new is, the story has a happy ending - well, semi-happy, at least. He's already read the ending - he knows. In a few microts he and Aeryn will be collapsed on the floor, exhausted, listening as the dead Prefect's young son openly accuses his father's true murderer. And while he doesn't remember how that particular conversation ends, he very clearly recalls reaching out to touch Aeryn's face, smile into her eyes. It's one of the few memories he'll keep from the time lakka ruled his life.

Even now he's wrestling with D'Argo, begging the Luxan to tongue him, just as a blind Chiana is wrestling with Aeryn. Somehow he manages to grab the pulse pistol D'Argo knocked from his grasp only an instant before, aims and fires before his mind can veto the idea.

Suddenly there's a deafening silence in the chamber.

"W-what happened?" Chiana stutters into the quiet. "Why isn't Aeryn fighting anymore? Somebody answer me!"

The bugs' mission is fulfilled; the urge to kill is gone. He droops the weapon and crawls to Aeryn, sprawled awkwardly on the elegant rug, the color of her blood changing its ornate design. He's vaguely aware of the noise around him, the screams and shouts, but mostly all he hears are the ghosts of yesterday.

I don't trust you with my heart. . .Come back when you've got your story straight. . .

Her already clouding eyes stare up at him. I think I've got my story straight now, if you're still interested. . .

It's Larraq and the virus all over again, no Gillina to provide the miracle cure this time. Dead dead dead.

He pulls her close, close to him, weeps denials into her hair.

[]

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers. Direct your energy to the proper place.

Nine-seven-five-three-one.

(Nothing.)

John Crichton thinks to himself, This, at least, is a safe place.

Some might call him crazy for having such a thought; after all, he's barely out of the danger zone for the imploding command carrier behind him. But after the last three tries, it's enough to be somewhere - some time - that Aeryn isn't in immediate danger of dying. Small things - he's learning to focus on small things.

He knows when they both finally get together in the Center Chamber, she won't say much beyond "no." He'll look at her and want to scream/cry just like he did before. She'll leave, and if he still can't find the words to change her mind, he'll let her go alone. Maybe living without her won't be so hard, knowing she's coming back. One thing's for sure - he's shooting Scorpy on sight this time, no ifs/ands/or buts - he'll save the blue goo from the coolant rods, though. That's great stuff.

Safe once more in Moya's docking bay, he asks hopefully, "Pilot, is Aeryn home yet?"

When it comes, Pilot's reply is weary. "No, Commander. Not yet."

He heads for the Central Chamber, idly wondering how much "real time" has passed since he last ate. He hopes Researcher Thessit is taking care of his body - he's rather attached to it.

Laughing at his own joke, he hunts for a snack.

He eats the snack.

He sits down and doodles odd nonsense, reverts to writing wormhole equations out of habit, uses his arm when he runs out of space on the tablet.

"Pilot, where's Aeryn?" he asks finally.

Pilot doesn't reply.

Jool appears on the threshold, D'Argo behind her, Chiana at her side. As a group they approach, stalking him.

"John," D'Argo begins gently.

"I'm sorry, oh I'm so sorry," Jool gushes, rushing forward to throw her arms around him. "She was so brave. . ."

Chiana creeps closer, reaches out to gently touch his cheek. "W-what she means is. . .The command carrier finished imploding a half arn ago. Aeryn. . . didn't make it."

"I'm sorry," D'Argo adds softly, meaning it.

There in the Central Chamber, surrounded by his grieving friends, John Crichton closes his eyes and wonders if he's this stupid in every timeline. Why doesn't he ever recognize defeat before it kicks him in the gut? Is there ever an existence where he does actually realize what he has before it's gone?

This fix-the-past thing was a frelling stupid idea. He doesn't want to play anymore.

This is round four, and once again, Aeryn's dead.

He bows his head, too exhausted to make a sound.

[]

Researcher Thessit hissed and clicked to himself.

The human failed to achieve necessary goals.

The other murderer would have to be obtained.

[]

D'Argo never thought he'd hear the sound of a child's laughter on Command again.

At the center table, Chiana was playing some sort of game with Kriteen, making her coo and laugh until the chamber echoed with sounds of delight. Chiana danced and bounced and made twisted faces at the infant. The Luxan honestly wasn't certain which female was having more fun.

Their time was limited. Always, always the good times were too short.

"Pilot, are we still hidden from the carrier?"

"Yes," Pilot answered, his image appearing on the clamshell. "The double suns are still shielding our presence. Oddly enough, no marauders are on recon, nor are any prowlers, as far as Moya's sensors can tell."

D'Argo grunted. "She may be blinded by the suns as well. Prepare Lo'La for departure."

"Wait," Pilot said. "I may. . . have spoken too soon. It appears a lone prowler has broken orbit from around the carrier."

"Heading?" the Luxan snapped. From the corner of his eye, he saw Chiana straighten, turn away from the infant.

"It's Aeryn," she announced somberly.

"It's not Aeryn," D'Argo barked. "Pilot, heading?"

"Aeryn is long dead, girl," Rygel said, zooming in on his thronesled. "Executed for Graza's murder, if nothing else."

"Deep space," Pilot answered. "Trajectory varies due to erratic flight pattern."

"I'm telling you, it's Aeryn," Chiana insisted. "Pilot, comm her, let her know we're here -"

"Belay that," D'Argo snapped. "Chiana, go play with the child."

"Frell you," Chiana returned. "Either you comm her, or I'll get in a transport pod and do it myself!"

Which she might actually do. The Nebari didn't listen to him as she once had. Short of tying her down or tonging her, he couldn't stop her. He growled, "Pilot, what about a short-burst transmission?"

"Do you know how unlikely it is that it's Aeryn out there?" Rygel demanded. "Even I wouldn't bet on those odds."

"Done," Pilot announced. "Moya sent a quarter-microt burst disguised as a solar flare. It shouldn't register as anything more than an anomaly to the carrier, but to Aeryn. . ."

"What'd you say?" Chiana asked.

"Talyn," answered Pilot. "It was Moya's suggestion."

"Well, any response?" Rygel questioned. "Should we be preparing for starburst?"

"No reply . . .Wait! Receiving a transmission - it's filtered through a comms device. . ." Pilot's voice faded.

"Put it on external," D'Argo ordered.

". . .that you, Pilot?. . ."

"Aeryn!" Chiana cried.

"By the yotz," Rygel exclaimed. "Doesn't that Peacekeeper ever die?"

"Aeryn, where are you?" D'Argo asked. "Head for the suns; Pilot will deploy the docking web - "

Her reply was cut off by harsh coughing followed by breathless gasps.

"What's wrong with her?" Rygel demanded. "Aeryn, get your eemma over here. We haven't spent all this time tracking you for nothing -"

"Shut up, your lowness," D'Argo snapped. "Aeryn, are you wounded?"

"Slightly," came the muted response. "I - I want to know: Sikozu said Crichton returned to his homeworld because he thought I was dead. That true?"

The Dominar waited for her coughing to again ease before answering. "It is. When he learned of your supposed death, it destroyed him. I watched the wormhole swallow him - I remember where. Come back, and I'll show you. I've been out of corn-pop for a while, anyway."

Beside him, Chiana smiled and ran a finger along the length of the Hynerian's earbrow.

"Do you need me to come out in Lo'La?" D'Argo offered. She sounded horrible.

"No, no. Changing course." Aeryn fell silent for a moment. "Wait. Wait a microt. Is that -?"

Through the forward portal, the trio on Command watched as a wormhole bloomed to life, watched as its blue, twisting form encircled the lone prowler and swallowed it whole.

"Not again," Rygel moaned. "First Crichton, now Aeryn? Those two pass bad habits worse than parasites pass diseases."

[]

Pain.

She remembered - a wormhole, a wormhole in the middle of frelling nowhere, and it was ironic that she was mere metras away from safety only to be swallowed by a wormhole -

Pain.

In the midst of being tossed, thrown, jostled, jabbed, hurled, propelled, yanked - she put a pill in her mouth, slipped it under her tongue. Two used; three left. One more and she'd be unconscious; two more and she'd never wake up. She'd swallowed two - right? Or three? How many were left? Had she dropped one?

Darkness.

Light.

Soft light, twilight. Where was she? She blinked, and her vision cleared.

She was in a chamber, a small cell: one bunk, one window, minimal sanitation facilities. A great quantity of odd equipment lay scattered around the room, devices she didn't recognize. She lay half sprawled on the bunk. On the floor. . . lay John Crichton.

She lunged towards the floor, found herself restrained by a pair of large, powerful hands. She snarled wordlessly at her captor, both for restraining her and because the hands fell on wounds far from healed.

Neeyala. The creature was like Neeyala, the kind who had forced Zhaan to her death.

"You recognize me," the creature said, slowly releasing her. "I am Researcher Thessit. You are Aeryn Sun. That is your mate, John Crichton."

She would've thrown angry words at him, but a fit of coughing doubled her over, left her with little breath. Flecks of blood clung to her lips when the spell ended. "Why are we here?"

"Time," the creature said. "Your energy is nearly spent. You must do as I say without hesitation."

She only looked her defiance at him.

"You must do as I say, or your mate will die," Researcher Thessit added.

[]

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers. Direct your energy to the proper place.

Thirteen. Eleven. Seven. Five. Three.

(Ridiculous.)

Aeryn Sun immediately notices that there is an astonishing lack of pain. She notices that she's on her back, in her bunk, alone, and on Moya - but mostly she notices that there isn't any pain. Eyes still closed, she draws a deep breath - no coughing, lungs clear. Slowly she tests her way down her body - head (good), neck (fine), arms/hands (not broken), torso (good), legs/feet (whole).

Amazing.

Slowly she sits up, opens her eyes. She's in her room on Moya; the Leviathan's gentle hum fills the air. "Pilot?" she asks hesitantly.

"Yes, Officer Sun?"

"Where are we?"

"We're still at the same coordinates we were before the sleep cycle, holding steady at the wormhole's last known location," Pilot answers. "Are you feeling well, Officer Sun?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you." She throws back the blanket, sets her feet on the deck. Her hair is long again, the length it was just after she'd been thrown out by the Peacekeepers.

Wait -

There are two sets of memories in her mind, one far more extensive than the other. On one side, she's been free a lot longer: a Peacekeeper and not, married and not, a mother and not, and dying. On this side, she's a lot younger: things are the same until Namtar, his crystal doesn't make Moya insane, the others get to go home. D'Argo leaves to hunt his dead wife's brother, Rygel returns to Hyneria, Zhaan goes back to Delvia Prime; Chiana has yet to arrive (maybe she never will.)

Frell. The frelling researcher was right. She's at a different place in time. Where, exactly?

She remembers now. Crichton's disappeared down the wormhole to the false Earth. He wanted her to go with him, but she was afraid. . . a planet full of billions of him, and only one of her. An entire different form of loneliness. Different stars. In this time, he isn't abandoning her, he's just going home.

The result is the same.

She gets dressed, braids her hair, heads for the Center Chamber.

Already the memory of pain is distant, and she's hungry. Moya is quiet with the others gone, only the DRD's for company.

Without her and the others to ruin it, Crichton probably won't return from the false Earth. Maybe the Ancients will send him straight home this time, spare him a little pain. She hopes they do, for his sake. He deserves him.

Later she cleans her pulse pistol, goes to visit Pilot.

"Has Moya ever wanted a child?" she asks.

Pilot blinks at her with his wide, innocent eyes. "She hasn't considers the idea for a very long time," he answers.

She walks to the maintenance bay thinking of Talyn. In this life, D'Argo never broke Velorek's shield. Crais is still looking for his brother's murderer. Scorpius isn't even a blip on the sense horizon. Her prowler sits alone in the bay.

It's quiet on Moya without anyone else.

She works on her prowler without interruptions. The first time around, she hated tech work; now she's glad for it. Tomorrow she'll ask Pilot if Moya needs anything repaired. Or perhaps the next day. There's no rush.

She's half bent into the cockpit when a voice asks, "Need a hand?"

She straightens, turns, finds a young, smiling Crichton behind her. "You came back," she says simply. "Why didn't you stay?"

He ducks his head, shuffles his feet, offers her his best little-boy smile, doesn't say a word.

He may have wormhole knowledge, but Scorpius doesn't know about it yet.

She'll make sure he never does.

[]

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers. Direct your energy to the proper place.

Thirteen. Eleven. Seven. Five. Three.

(Still ridiculous.)

Aeryn Sun isn't surprised to find herself on the Royal Planet. After all she's encountered, she doubts anything will ever surprise her again. At least she's still whole in this timeline - still stubborn, but whole.

She's in the Barren Lands with Dragon. They've just started their little adventure; past experience screams in her ear, so when he suggests rock-climbing, she counters, "How about hiking? It's a long way back to a physician."

She's still not sorry she missed the wedding. She's sorry she let it happen, but not that she wasn't there. Some things don't change.

Dragon's eyes are boring into her back, and he smiles whenever she halfway glances at him. Last time, she was tempted to recreate with him just to prove she could. Not now; she knows she can, but doesn't want to. If her memories of the last trip to the Royal Plant hold true, so too do her memories of her time among the ex-Peacekeeper squad, after the first Crichton's death.

Her companion wearies long before her, only complains through gasps and frequent stops. They make camp late, break it before dawn.

She wonders if Crichton is having fun with the disruptor.

On the third night, she realizes they're being followed, curses them both for not noticing before. Only the fact that they've doubled back reveals the signs this time: a third set of bootprints, broken twigs on the low scrub, disturbed rocks. Dragon is impressed with her ability to notice such things; she's annoyed he can't.

"Stay here while I take cover in the brush," she orders. He thinks she's hiding, letting him protect her; his opinion of her probably wouldn't drop even if he knew she was only using him for bait.

They don't have to wait long. A figure appears, enters the firelight without hesitation: male, solidly built, familiar.

"Howdy," John Crichton greets the royal cousin. "You wouldn't have seen a Sebacean woman around her, would you? Grey eyes, dark hair, yay tall, answers to the name of Officer Sun? Or 'ma'am' on a bad day."

"Crichton," she says, quickly approaching. "Aren't you supposed to be a statue by now?" That's the way it went last time, anyway.

He grins at her. "Well, I thought about what you said. I hope you have one helluva plan to get us out of this mess."

They've been in tougher situations than this before and will be again.

"We'll work something out," she says with a smile.

[]

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers. Direct your energy to the proper place.

Thirteen,eleven,seven,five,three.

(Is she doing this right?)

Aeryn Sun has a killer headache. The rest of her is fine, but she's had this headache for eight straight solar days. Thank Cholak the plant Zhaan gave her is finally starting to work.

Of course, the human beside her could change that. His chattering is driving her insane.

"Could you possibly shut up for half an arn?" she demands angrily. "This is why I wanted to go on recon alone."

For a microt Crichton looks hurt, but only for a microt. "Now, Aeryn, would you really want to be out in mist all by your lonesome?"

"Yes!"

"I didn't think so," he says smugly, as if she agreed with him. "Look, sensors say there's a planet not too far ahead."

"Great, fine. Let's go back to Moya and inform the others," she snaps. At this rate, even the plant's roots will be gone by the time they get back.

She doesn't have any memories of this trip from the past timeline. Maybe it never happened.

"Uh, Houston, we have a problem," Crichton announces. "The hole in the mist is gone."

She glares at him. "Gone where?"

"I don't know," he answers. "But I bet you're glad you're not alone now."

"That has yet to be determined," she replies, but she has a feeling he might be right.

She's going to need a lot of Zhaan's plant.

[]

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers. Direct your energy to the proper place.

Thirteen-eleven-seven-five-three.

(How many times does she have to do this?)

Aeryn Sun is once again reliving one of the worst moments in her life. She's gone through this scene a thousand times in her dreams, now is facing it on real terms a second time - or maybe the third or fourth time.

She's in her prowler, chasing John/Scorpius in the module across the Ice Planet, Already she can feel the freezing water in her lungs - not her favorite way to die.

And Zhaan - this was the beginning of the end.

She can't live through this again. She checks their location relative to the planet surface: still above solid ground. D'Argo's voice is in one ear, telling her not to hesitate; Crais' voice is in the other, instructing her to trust nothing. This time, she's planning to listen to them both.

"John," she says calmly into the comms link. "I know you're still there, locked away. If you have any control whatsoever - brace for impact."

She fires before he can respond.

The module crashes. She lands recklessly, is on the ground in record time. Already the primitive white pod is in flames, smoke billowing from one wing.

I killed him this time,she thinks wearily. She wonders if Zhaan will still die.

"A-Aeryn." Cough, sputter.

She dives around to the other side, finds Crichton in a snowdrift coughing harshly.

"Hi, babe," he says as soon as he's able.

She drops down beside him, helps him to sit up. "I love you, you frelling stupid human," she informs him. She hits him while he's still smiling at her, knocks him unconscious; she's not taking any more chances this time.

She's alive. Zhaan's alive. Crichton's alive. Should she try to stop Chiana and Jothie?

She'll have to think about it. It's going to take time to get back to the Diagnosian, anyway.

[]

Count backwards, five sets of prime numbers. Direct your energy to the proper place.

Elevensevenfivethreeone.

(Try using the lowest prime numbers, Sun.)

(Nine isn't a prime number, Johnny-boy.)

John Crichton and Aeryn Sun are smashed side by side in D'Argo's strange ship, the one he'll someday name after his dead wife. They're staring out the open hatch at the dead serpent; the echoes of Zhaan's bitter rebuke over Pilot are still ringing in their ears.

"I'm here," Aeryn mumbles. "Frell me dead - I didn't think it was actually possible."

"Me either," Crichton agrees without thinking.

They turn to look at each other.

Crichton notices her eyes: pupils dilated completely open, all traces of grey gone. "What happened to your eyes?" He watches those eyes narrow with doubt.

Aeryn watches him closely. "Suzhaana," she says, testing him.

"Sikozu," he counters. "Scorpius."

She gambles. "Researcher Thessit."

Crichton throws his arms around her and crushes her to him, feels her breathing, smells her hair, mumbles into her hair, "It's you, it's you." It's always her, in any time, in every time.

She pulls back enough to meet his eyes. "You should've waited for me -"

" - I watched your prowler explode! You died -"

" - I watched you open a wormhole, leave me behind - "

Their words are running over each other; they sound like two children trying to outdo each other. They both fall silent at the same time, smile and smile, making up for missed chances and lost time.

"How'd you get here?" Crichton finally thinks to ask.

"Same way you did," Aeryn answers. "A wormhole swallowed me as I was headed back to Moya. D'Argo, Chiana, Rygel - I'm certain they saw what happened. They're probably still waiting there. This researcher - one of Neeyala's people - he said I had to do this time correction thing. He said if Neeyala died, so would you. And I saw you there. . ."

"We don't have much time," Crichton says grimly. "The first time we did this, Neeyala died about a half arn from now. Assuming we can save her, we'll be yanked back into our real timeline as soon as we fix things. Somehow I doubt Researcher Thessit will just let us go."

"I don't give a frell about Neeyala," Aeryn snarls. "I'm doing this for Zhaan. For Zhaan, do you hear me? She never should have died here. I'm not going to let it happen again."

Crichton smiles, understands all too well what she means. "Neither am I. The way I figure it, we program a DRD to run the separation sequence, keeping both Neeyala and Zhaan on Moya - the two-birds-with-one-stone route. What we need is a game plan to get away from the mad scientist back in the real world."

Aeryn turns her head. "There is another option," she say slowly. "We can save Zhaan and let Neeyala die. We could stay in this timeline indefinitely - isn't it possible? Think of all the things we could set right: you're never twinned, I never leave, Crais and Talyn survive, Suzhaana lives, we become grandparents. We could get it right this time, John."

He recognizes the plea in her voice - it's the same one he hears in his head every time he skips into a new when. "Aeryn -"

"Don't say no -"

"I'm saying yes. Of course I want the same thing. But you and I have been through too much to expect things to be that simple." He catches her chin, meets her eyes. "Researcher Thessit won't let us go that easily. You know he won't. Let's do what we have to do, and then we'll go back to our real lives. You said D'Argo and Chiana and Rygel are waiting for you - we can't just leave them."

"I said might be waiting," she corrects, already sounding convinced. "And the others - Zhaan, Talyn, Zhaana - they might still be alive."

"Anything's possible," Crichton agrees, although he's not sure.

Aeryn looks at him for a long microt. She doesn't tell him about Kriteen, doesn't tell him she's close to dying back in her "real life." She says only, "I'm going to trust you."

He kisses her quickly. "About time," he teases. "Let's go find Neeyala."

Aeryn hears echoes of his words as she follows him past the dead serpent. Of course - it's always about time. And wormholes.

It's still not going to be easy. It wasn't easy the first time, and round two is going to need almost as much luck.

Aeryn leaves Neeyala to him while she tends to Pilot. Moya's counterpart will still have to make the necessary calculations and control the Leviathan when necessary. Aeryn ran that part of the plan without a hitch the first time, and he knows she can do it again.

He supposes it says something about how much she trusts him that she's leaving Neeyala to his care. He isn't going to disappoint her.

"Jool, watch Neeyala!" he shouts over the comms as he races towards Command.

"What? I can't hear you over this incessant screeching," the Interron replies.

It doesn't matter; when he reaches Command, the Ilano'sslan is still restrained and seated where he left her earlier. "Jool, go help D'ARGO in the neural clusters," he says, heading for the alien.

"I don't know where those are," Jool whines.

"You wanna stay here and listen to the screeching?"

She goes, but she's not pleased.

Crichton stops mere denches from Neeyala. "Listen to me. I know you feel like you've failed your crew and family, but you haven't. All that knowledge you're so jazzed about isn't just in your ship - it's in your head."

Neeyala tisks and shakes her head. "You don't understand -"

"I do understand," he interrupts. "Believe me, I do. And I know how important that information really is. You're trying to save your civilization, your people. I've been to your world, Neeyala. It's stuck in purgatory, that place where it's never night and never day. The knowledge you carry might free it."

"How do you know these things?" the Ilano'sslan asks suspiciously.

"Because I was sent back to save you," Crichton answers honestly. "I'm assuming that you won't think I'm insane, that you're familiar with this technology. Researcher Thessit captured me and made me Johnny Jump-back because he thinks what you know can save your people."

"Researcher Thessit?" she echoes. "Impossible. He was my mate several cycles ago. We had offspring. He would have been executed if I failed to return."

Crichton shakes his head, trying to clear his ears of the constant sirens. "I don't know the how's and why's, I only know that back in my timeline, he's very much alive. Now lady, you gotta make a choice. The first time I played this game, you fell on the phaztillion generator and turned into a pile of dust. Thessit said he'd tried to fix the timeline a few times, and Aeryn killed you to save Moya. It sounds to me like the bottom line is, you die. Would you rather die here and now, or would you like to try to convince your people that you're more valuable alive than executed?"

Neeyala scrutinizes him closely. "Limited as you are, you do know more than any other species we have encountered."

He smiles a little. "Yeah, well, humans are superior. Hey Aeryn," he adds over the comms. "Looks like we have a winner up here. How's Pilot doing?"

[]

She stops on the threshold to Command, hesitates just for a microt at the sight before her. There's a set of DRD's sitting on the circular control unit of Neeyala's ship. Neeyala herself, the Interron, and the rest of Moya's crew are far back on Moya's deck, safely out of range of the alien vessel. This time around, everyone's on Command, not scattered across the ship like before. D'Argo has Chiana on his back because she can't walk on her injured leg; the curious Nebari peeks over his shoulder, half afraid and half fascinated by the increasing patterns of sound. Zhaan and Stark are together, standing off to the side. Crichton and Rygel are looking out the forward portal.

This is all she wants. Service, promotion, retirement, death - life was more simple as a Peacekeeper, but never this good. She looks at the people on Moya's deck, no two of the same race, and thinks to herself: friends, family, time. The elements of a perfect life.

One more chance,she thinks, prays, dreams, hopes. One more time.

Stark turns his head to smile at her. She smiles in return, crosses the chamber to stand at Crichton's side.

"Listen, John - we're in the same room together. I'm on the bunk. I - may not be much help in our escape. I was wounded before the researcher caught my prowler," she whispers softly.

Crichton becomes very still. "How bad?"

Should she lie? He'd know soon, anyway. No more lies. "Very bad."

"You should -" he begins, stops. "We'll work it out. We've been in worse spots before."

"Multiple times," she agrees.

He smiles at her, she smiles back. "Ready for a little manual point and shoot?"

"Activate the separation sequence now," Neeyala orders.

"Here we go again," Crichton says, taking her hand and squeezing it.

"Last time," she replies.

[]

Crichton's eyes snapped open. There were two Ilano'sslan in the room now, crowding the small space: Researcher Thessit, and Pathfinder Neeyala. He wasn't surprised, and he didn't care. He only cared about one thing.

Aeryn was half sprawled on the bed, one leg drawn up. She tried to smile at him, but it looked more like a grimace; when she tried to talk, she began to cough, producing blood.

Crichton wanted to scream. Every time - every damn time! Why, why in every timeline did she end up dead?

He scrambled over to her, held her as she coughed and coughed. "Oh Aeryn, why didn't you tell me?" he mumbled. It was easy to hear the blood in her lungs, see the bruises and breaks on her body.

He glared at the Ilano'sslan over his shoulder. "Can we go now?"

Researcher Thessit shook his head. "I apologize. You have proven to be a most satisfactory participant. There are any more incidents to correct -"

"Can't you see? She's dying!" Crichton shouted.

"We have no physicians to treat her kind," Neeyala said neutrally.

"John, it's alright," Aeryn managed in a low voice. She drew him closer for a reassuring hug and brief kiss. "I'm certain I'll make it for at least another quarter arn."

She'd pushed something into his mouth during the kiss, two somethings - pills? A quarter arn - that must be the duration. Or was that how long it took for them to work?

He swallowed. "Okay," he said, meeting her eyes. The pupils were already fully dilated. She must've already taken the drug.

He felt the onset within microts of swallowing. Suddenly his vision sharpened, became clearer than it'd ever been in his life. He could hear the faint thrum of the time-shifting equipment that he hadn't noticed only a few minutes before. And energy - he could take on the entire race of Ilano'sslan!

"Good, aren't they?" Aeryn smiled.

"Way better than that," he said, grinning.

In one smooth movement he was on his feet. He picked up the nearest chunk of equipment and flung it at Neeyala, grabbed Thessit and smashed him face-first into the wall. Somehow Aeryn managed to get off the bed and over to Neeyala.

The alien was strong - Crichton had to give him that. But the researcher wasn't used to physical confrontation, he could tell - Thessit's blows were ill-aimed and slow. Crichton stayed behind him as much as possible to prevent the deadly barbs in Thessit's slits from having a chance to hit him.

"That's enough!" Aeryn shouted hoarsely.

The two males turned to find Aeryn had forced a blanket completely over Neeyala's head and now held a sharp length of metal from broken equipment at the pathfinder's throat.

"We'll be leaving now," Crichton said smugly.

He hustled Neeyala down the corridor, trusting her to value her life enough to lead them accurately. Aeryn came quickly on his heels, covering their retreat. She moved oddly, almost marching; he was surprised she was doing as well as she was. The pills must've cost a fortune.

"At the next juncture, turn left. That will lead you to your ships - but you must have my access codes to enter the bay," Neeyala stated flatly.

"And you're just going to give those to us," Aeryn said, voice heavy with sarcasm.

Crichton made the proscribed turn, and sure enough, there was a large, closed door with an access panel on the bulkhead. "Aw, hell."

"I will," Neeyala said calmly. "I remember you, John Crichton. You prevented me from doing something reckless not so long ago. I am prepared to repay the debt."

"Your friend Thessit sure wasn't," Crichton countered, releasing the pathfinder but not removing the blind.

"We all make difficult choices," Neeyala replied. "He only seeks to save our people. He did not send you back to save me for my sake, but for the sake of the knowledge I carried. Like many of the Ilano'sslan, he values the good of the group over the good of the individual. I have never been as certain in that logic."

"Neither have I," Crichton admitted.

"John."

He turned, found Aeryn slumped against the wall. "What's going on? You said a quarter arn!"

"I was - less of an optimist - before I met you," she gasped before breaking into a fit of coughing.

Crichton stood and quickly yanked off Neeyala's hood. "I hope you don't betray us." He bent to scoop up Aeryn.

"Why would I?" Neeyala asked. She turned to the access pad.

Once inside the bay, Crichton saw more ships than he'd seen in a long time. Large, small, all foreign in design: sharp angles and stark planes, unadorned and harsh to the eyes, colder even than Peacekeeper vessels. His module and Aeryn's prowler stood out flamboyantly among all the other ships.

"Which vessel are you taking?" Neeyala questioned.

Damn. "Prowler's faster, but I'm not sure we wouldn't turn out liquid goo if we don't take the module," he answered, heading for his ship.

"What about the prowler?" Aeryn said quietly against his chest.

"I'll take care of it," he promised.

He keyed open the module, waited just long enough for the canopy to open before helping her climb into the cockpit. "Get it going. I'll be back in ten microts."

Neeyala watched him race over to Aeryn's prowler and pop the canopy. "You need not rush so. Thessit will not dare report your escape. What he has done is against many of our laws, and would earn us both an execution."

"Is that the punishment for all crimes?" Crichton returned, busily adjusting controls. "And, I know you'll think I'm crazy, but I don't trust Thessit." Quickly he finished, shimmied down the ladder and resealed the canopy. "You, I have a little more faith in. That's why I'm going to tell you that you have one hundred and eighty microts to run like hell. After that, this ship's gonna go boom."

The pathfinder tisked and hissed. "That will set off a chain reaction, destroying all the ships in the vicinity! It may level half the structure itself. If the explosion is severe enough, it may draw the planet too close to a given wormhole, annihilating us all."

"Not that big of a boom," Crichton temporized, although he wasn't certain. Bottom line: he didn't care, so long as he and Aeryn were far away. "Good luck."

Aeryn had laid the first seat in the module completely flat to provide a little more space. He dropped in behind her, snuggled close as the canopy closed.

She leaned back against him. "Ready?"

"Ready," he agreed. "Let's go home."

Aeryn managed to get the module out of orbit faster than he remembered was possible. After that, she said, "Do you want to fly?"

"Sure." He could hear the fluid in her lungs with every breath. She was sweating heavily, but fear made him cold. "I've got it."

One hundred seventy five microts. He turned the module to watch the explosion. He could live with the knowledge of mass destruction - he'd lived with Katratzi for a long time - but he wanted to know for certain, not torment himself with possibilities.

Mistake. The initial blast was small, a bare pinprick of light, but bloomed so rapidly that the light for the hundreds of surrounding wormholes reflected it again and again, all in the space of a few microts, blinding him.

"Crichton," Aeryn gasped, then began to cough.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he said quickly, "but it'll be a second."

She took a deep breath, ceased to cough, but didn't reply.

She hears a heartbeat. It isn't hers - it's too fast, too loud - but she recognizes it. "How's - your sight?" she whispers.

Arms flex tighter around her, quickly release. "You scared the frell out of me, babe," he replies, his voice gentle in her ear. "I thought you were dead."

Not yet, she wants to say, but lacks the energy. The darkness is clawing for her again. Three pills and you'll be unconscious, Sikozu had warned. She'd had to risk it, even not knowing if enough time had passed. She hadn't wanted to die a prisoner. She'd always planned to die in space, and free.

"Where?" she gasps, all she can manage. She feels like she's drowning. At least it isn't cold this time.

"The birthplace of wormholes," he answers. "I can't tell which way to go. And - if you were dead, I wasn't planning to go anywhere."

"No!" she says fiercely, is rewarded with a fit of coughing. She didn't come all this way just to have him give up. "You - must fight. Things different. Ask D'Argo - baby - Zhaan." Frell. What she meant is, Ask D'Argo about the baby, and Zhaan. They'd changed things! Made things better.

She clings to that, even as everything else is slipping away.

Wordlessly she finds the comm she'd secreted away after being swallowed by the wormhole. She presses it into his hand.

"Is that a comm? How -? Never mind." He activates it. "Pilot? D'Argo? Chiana, Rygel? Anybody?"

Fuzz-fuzz-fuzz-

" - Crichton? - you?"

He lets out a whoop of delight. She smiles, listens to his heart beat faster.

"D'Argo! Is Zhaan there? Or Suzhaana? What about Jool? Aeryn's hurt pretty bad."

Fuzz-fuzz-fuzz-

" - Zhaan - here - we've got - girl - where -? -"

What does that mean? Is Zhaan there? Is the "girl" Kriteen or Suzhaana? A dying woman deserves better answers!

"Aeryn," Crichton says softly. "I think I can patch the comm into the module's systems. I think I can see good enough for that. Then we just follow the signal, dive down a wormhole." He briefly kisses the spot just above her ear. "Now, the way I figure, this can end up one of four ways. One - we follow the wrong wormhole and die because it's immature. Two - we follow the wrong wormhole and end up someplace worse, like Scarren space, and we die. Three - we follow the right wormhole and end up next to Moya, D'Argo deploys the docking web, and we get a happy ending. Or four - we follow the right wormhole but into the wrong time, get set back in our own timeline a few cycles back, just like our friend Thessit did with us before." He kisses the soft space beside her eye. "Feel lucky?"

She has to tell him. "Every time I went back - you stayed with me. I always - loved you."

His soft laughter stirs her hair. "Way better than I did - although I always did love you, too. We had some good times, huh?"

"The best," she whispers, and closes her eyes.

"Alright," he says after a few microts. "One more time."

He takes her hand, and everything turns shades of blue.

[end]

**Author's Note:**

> Title for this series, Life By Inches, comes from the following poem by Adrienne Rich called Stepping Backward. No infringement intended.
> 
> Yet still good-by, because we live by inches  
> And only sometimes see the full dimension.  
> Your stature's one I want to memorize--  
> Your whole level of being, to impose  
> On any other comers, man or woman.  
> I'd ask them that they carry what they are  
> With your particular bearing, as you wear  
> The flaws that make you both yourself and human.


End file.
